


like the acca,

by houmei



Category: ACCA13区監察課 | ACCA 13-ku Kansatsuka
Genre: M/M, dreams are a good excuse to avoid talking in bed, says grossular
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 19:38:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10951335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houmei/pseuds/houmei
Summary: Grossular dreams about his office and this is not uncommon– nor, surprisingly, is the environment in which he finds himself waking in.





	like the acca,

Grossular dreams about his office and this is not uncommon. He dreams of the coffee table that rarely sees company, the cabinet in badly need of a dusting and the window he often looks out of. Many of his dreams take place in his office and he can only be bothered to remember a select handful of them before those too become indistinct memories and then merely thoughts- long forgotten.

He’s dreaming of it now. Standing by the furthest window to the right he overlooks the front courtyard of headquarters. For some inherent reason he cannot explain he badly needs the window open and for a while fades in and out of his deep reverie- always returning again with his fingers fumbling with the lock, his movements slow and heavy like molasses. After what seems like a small eternity he finally unlocks the panel and slides the window up.

A small red bird flutters into view and lands on the window sill. It’s thin blue feet hop onto his fingers and scratch at his skin. 

Grossular dares not breathe. He feels his fingers grow callous and stiff– like twigs, splintering apart at the seams of his knuckles, growing longer and more grotesque. Leaves sprout beneath the bed of his fingernails, bark erupts under his skin. By the time the branches have begun to blossom several more red birds flock to him to perch with the first.

And then– numbness. An indescribable heartache.

 

He wakes with a twitch of his arm. Having fallen asleep with his bicep cushioning his neck the pinprick sensation of poor circulation floods back to him and he slides his arm down, hoping to assuage the feeling. He squints through bleary vision and attempts to read the numbers of his alarm through bright red fog. 

Four am. He remembers a high rise restaurant in Bādon and wine drying sweetly on his tongue. He remembers waiting an abysmal amount of time for their chauffeur to escape the evening traffic and returning to his apartment much later.

He remembers steaming floral tea and coffee on the kitchen counter– forgotten almost as soon as he had decided to change out of his uniform, all because of him- 

“ _Mm_ ,” A hum, muffled against the nape of his neck. “You rarely move in your sleep, Chief Officer Grossular. Were you having a dream?”

There’s a smolder of indignation at that, an audacity that comes with Lilium knowing what he’s like when he’s asleep. Grossular lies still, his breathing calm and deep.

A hand skims down his stomach. “Was it a good dream?”

“I can’t seem to recall.” Almost too quickly does Grossular’s hand covers Lilium’s, halting it in it’s path down his pelvis. “Chief Officer Lilium.” Fatigue subdues his words and makes them heavy. “You should go back to sleep.”

“Aha,” A chuckle, fanned against his skin. “Dodging the question, hm?” Even after just waking, Lilium’s tone still holds a quiet edge. The smile pressed against his skin slowly parts and forms into a yawn. 

Grossular, much to his astonishment, feels the indescribable sensation once again.

“Perhaps in the morning, then.” Lilium murmurs and is soon sighing evenly once again. Grossular remembers their hands and intertwines his long fingers with darker ones. Wispy strands of hair tickle his neck and the pulsing heat of breath between his shoulder blades lulls him enough to close his eyes once again. There is a slight hint of apprehension, of stumbling once again into the imaginings of his conscious where he cannot make sense of what he sees (or what he feels, for that matter). There is swift, fleeting doubt-

 

and then the barest squeeze of his hand. Grossular sighs. 

He sleeps.


End file.
